


Only Fiction

by hajiimee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, i cant not have a happy ending tbh i get sad, well an implied happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6779833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajiimee/pseuds/hajiimee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would. </p>
<p>There was no sensation of his heart being ripped in two, and his chest wasn’t tight, not even a hint of the painful constriction that he’d heard so much about. There was no sharp jab through his ribs, often likened to the stab of a knife in literature, and he didn’t feel like he was suffocating, or drowning, nor did he feel like he was choking on each breath, unable to breathe. </p>
<p>Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.</p>
<p>Because Akaashi Keiji didn’t feel anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Fiction

**Author's Note:**

> [06/05/2016 18:01:45] Snivel War: tbh i fancy writing bokuaka but I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO WRITE ABT  
> [06/05/2016 18:05:39] Aloo Ababwa: SOMETHING ANGSTY
> 
> :^)

**Sun 02 2016, 22:15:07**

**To: Bokuto Koutarou**

> **-** Ah

**Sun 02 2016, 22:15:17**

**To: Bokuto Koutarou**

> \- I understand.

_He didn’t understand._

.

.

.

.

.

.

Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.

There was no sensation of his heart being ripped in two, and his chest wasn’t tight, not even a hint of the painful constriction that he’d heard so much about. There was no sharp jab through his ribs, often likened to the stab of a knife in literature, and he didn’t feel like he was suffocating, or drowning, nor did he feel like he was choking on each breath, unable to breathe. Every over the top description that was ingrained into his sub-conscious, constructing his elaborate expectations, slipped through his fingers, evaporating on the wind, their existence a mere illusion that he was just, for the first time, catching on to. It was a lie – it was all a lie, because he didn’t feel crushed, he didn’t feel like he was dying, or that a part of him was missing, leaving a gaping hole in his heart. He didn’t feel like his body was aching, and he didn’t feel like he was about to cry.

Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.

Because Akaashi Keiji didn’t feel _anything_.

No, that was a lie – he felt numb, as if he’d gone to the dentist for a procedure, and instead of injecting his gums, they’d accidentally pushed the needle right into his heart, letting the syringes contents be pumped around his body in a slow thump, thump, thump. His fingers and toes tingled, a persistent pins and needles sensation, his feet and hands having been tuned to a station that didn’t get any picture, only a static black and white buzz. The world didn’t stop around him, another element of heartbreak that he’d come to expect. It moved exactly the same as before, and in a way, it was _worse_ , because if the world had stopped, Akaashi could have stopped too, and he wouldn’t have to think. He wouldn’t have to sit there, perched on the edge of his desk chair, staring blankly down at his work. Maths.

The words didn’t swim. They should have swum. They should have blurred, and distorted, becoming incomprehensible, but they didn’t, and he could register them easily, each one permeating his hazed mind like a swipe of a windscreen wiper across a soap covered window, smearing the suds time and time again until they were no more. Clarity. Akaashi didn’t want clarity. He wanted to feel something stronger – he should feel something stronger. Why didn’t he feel something stronger? It didn’t feel right.

Find the solution to the following:

X2 = _Why_?

Akaashi’s desk vibrated in sync with his phone, the screen lighting up. New message, new message, new message. No more, no more, no more. He reached out, fingers shaking slightly as he picked up his phone, letting his eyes go out of focus so that he didn’t catch sight of the previews as he turned it over. He placed it down on the desk once more, face down, blocking the light of the screen from view as the notifications poured in. _No more_. Downstairs he could hear his mother chattering to his father, the clanging of pots and pans their theme song. Their words were muffled, indecipherable from his spot a floor above the kitchen, but he didn’t need to hear them clearly to know the conversation taking place.

‘ _Get up and help me!_ ’

‘ _It’s not help, it’s manual labour._ ’

The lyrics to accompany the instrumental of clangs and bangs; of chops and thumps. A nightly argument, his mother requiring help with the cooking, and his father dallying about for a good twenty minutes before joining her side, usually bumping her hip as he took to peeling carrots, potatoes, or whatever that evening’s vegetables were. She wouldn’t let him do anything more complicated than that, his cooking skills far below her standards for what her family could ingest. Akaashi listened, a bubble of fondness swelling and then popping within him, and he hated himself for it – hated himself for being able to feel more about something mundane than he could about the fact that he’d had his attraction thrown into the spotlight only to be booed off of the stage.

Oh, there was another feeling – a feeling more than the numbness that his body had succumbed to. It still wasn’t even close to having his heart ripped from his chest, or any other graphic image associated with being heartbroken, hop and skipping to the opposite end of the spectrum and causing his throat to close up and his fingers to curl in on themselves, nails digging into his palms. Embarrassment. Akaashi felt embarrassed. It burned. It burned along his nerves and through his veins in a liquid fire, causing his skin to prickle and itch and flush as though he was suffering from an unbreakable fever. His stomach twisted, intestines twining together into a knot of sudden regret that overtook the numbness like a thousand volts to the neck.

The desk continued to buzz, Bokuto incessant in his persistence to force a reply, or even a ‘Seen’ out of Akaashi, and he reached out, silencing the device once and for all but shutting it off completely. The screen snapped to black before he could see anything on the screen, and he was grateful, not sure if he could stomach looking at the backlash from his stupidity. It was a joke, of course it was a joke, there was nothing else it could be and Akaashi Keiji was a fool. An idiot, a moron, and every other deprecating word about intelligence in the world, language barrier erased in his pursuit to belittle himself before someone else could. Still, the idea that it was a hoax throbbed, a painful series of blebs on his brain that spread with each passing minute.

He expected better of Bokuto.

He’d hoped for better.

The heartbreak may not having been crushing, but the disappointment he felt at the idea that it was _Bokuto_ , of all people, who had left him feeling so hollow and listless certainly was. It cornered him from all sides, unheeded warnings to stay away muttered to him back in his first year by the third years clawing their way unfairly down his throat as if they were right, as if he was wrong to get close. There were more muffled snippets from conversations below, and Akaashi swallowed thickly, trying to force the lump that had taken residence in his throat down, down, down, without avail. It was like he’d eaten a brownie without a glass of water, the substance turning gluggy and thick, sticking and staying. His homework was due tomorrow.

‘ _I’m sorry, I couldn’t do my maths work because I’m too dumb._ ’

Dumb about love, dumb about life.

Akaashi Keiji was dumb.

When his mother and father finished their joint cooking effort in the kitchen, they served, and they called him down, and he sat, and he ate, every bite sitting on the lump in his throat and leaving him with an inability to put anything else in his mouth for fear of vomiting. He poked, he prodded, he stood and he pushed himself away from the table, bowing his head and excusing himself, his exit applauded with concerned looks at his back that were then exchanged with each other once he was no longer in sight.

Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.

Well, at least it didn’t at first. Akaashi had a feeling it was like a slow moving disease, laying low in your body for a period before springing forth in all its anguished glory. Or like the five stages of grief, progressing through a series of ‘next levels’ until he reached the cliché’s he’d been expecting. A tsunami of heartache waiting for the tectonic plates of ‘ouch’ to shift and set it into motion. Monday mornings were never pleasant, the week stretching out ahead, but Akaashi’s was ten times worse, in his opinion. He woke with a heavy body, limbs dead weights that he struggled to lift and move, and his head felt stuffy and cramped, as if he’d had cotton wall shoved into his ears during the two measly hours of sleep he’d managed to scrounge. 

Akaashi hadn’t thought it possible that he’d feel worse the following day, having hoped that a night between him and the events preceding would have been enough for him to gather his wits about him, and pile brick after brick upwards in a tight wall around himself. His work was sloppy, the bricks uneven and allowing pests to enter inwards, slowly tearing down his hasty job. Stage one of the cliché’s: a tight chest, ribs suddenly crushing the organs beneath and making each breath pin-prick sharp. It hurt, acupuncture holes dotting along his aorta. His appearance reflected his emotions, too – heavy bags under his eyes, slumped shoulders, a permanent downturn to his lips, and that ever so subtle tremor still rattling his bones.

Akaashi Keiji looked tired.

Akaashi Keiji looked _heartbroken_.

It kept coming back to that – the same definition stretched across three variations, an endless loop. Heartbreak, heartbroken, heartache. He left late, wanting to get to practice after everyone had already arrived, knowing that Bokuto was a ridiculously early riser. He was almost too like a bird in that respect, rising with the sun and bringing all his exuberance into the world at the crack of dawn. Any other time, the thought would have brought a fond twitch of a smile to Akaashi’s lips, but instead he just clenched the strap of his bag, skin stretching tight over knuckles – strained – and cleared his mind, willing himself not to think about Bokuto, not to _think_ in general. He redirected his attention to his feet, watching his steps and how the pavement disappeared behind him with each one. The clubroom was empty when he arrived, and he changed in his own time, not rushing despite being late, trying to stretch the minutes out as long as possible, procrastinating seeing Bokuto until the last loop and pull was made on his laces. He let the aglets fall, staring at the neat double knotted bow for a moment with a blank expression. In his chest, Akaashi’s should-be-dead heart was beating in slow, deliberate thumps, each one pounding in his eardrums. One, two, three. Up, up, up.

He stood, pushing himself to his feet using his hand for support, fingers splayed and palm pressed against the wall. Each of his movements were carefully thought out, calculated over and over again before acted, a way to keep himself focused on something that wasn’t Bokuto. That wasn’t practice, and that wasn’t a loud, all capitals ‘APRIL FOOLS’ blaring up from his screen and echoed with a non-existent laugh. The screech of the gym doors felt as if he were opening a long forgotten warehouse in a horror film, and Akaashi felt eyes turn to him immediately – looks that he refused to meet as he entered, easing the door closed to minimize the noise made. He apologised to the coach, who merely waved it off with a ‘Try not to be late again’, before joining the rest of his team. Konoha teased him about entering his ‘rebel’ phase, but his jokes received no response. Bokuto didn’t chime in as usual, and Akaashi made no comment about how maybe that meant Bokuto was rubbing off on him.

Glances passed between Akaashi and Bokuto, the same concern that had been on his parents faces the night before scrawled into the furrow of their eyebrows, and the downwards twist of their lips. Akaashi himself never looked up, even though he see, out of the corner of his eyes, Bokuto looking at him, looking just as much of a mess as Akaashi himself did. He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t _care_.

He cared.

Stage two of the cliché’s: There was a butcher’s knife wedged perfectly between his ribs, right through his heart.

When Bokuto called his name, it was desperate – no playful, ‘I’m ready for this!’ drawn out syllables. It was a shout, a plea, a simple:

“Akaashi!”  

Akaashi looked to him, for the first time that day, able to see the ball coming towards him. It was a split second decision. Bokuto was ready, Bokuto was waiting for him – he always was. Akaashi turned the other way. The ball touched his fingers, before bouncing off in the opposite direction from where Bokuto was, already springing up into the air. He snapped his gaze away from the team’s ace and captain, and towards another player instead, sending the toss their way.

“Konoha-San!”

Both Konoha and Bokuto fumbled, surprised. Bokuto faltered, stumbling forwards as he came down from his pointless jump, hand lowering slowly and face twisted into that of pained surprise as he watched Konoha struggle to surge, jump, spike in time. Akaashi’s first toss of the day always went to Bokuto.

Akaashi’s first toss of the day had gone to Konoha.

The ball slammed through the defences on the other side with ease, everybody too caught off guard by the sudden shift in routine – shift in dynamic – to even attempt to block. There were no shouts of ‘Nice spike!’, or any other words of congratulations or celebration. There were just wide eyes, and frozen poses, nobody moving a muscle. Konoha was staring at his palm as if it were someone else’s, magically transferred and stitched to his wrist, unable to fully comprehend what had just transpired. With a bout of idiotic bravery, Akaashi looked up at Bokuto, expression forcefully blank, all emotion suppressed, suppressed, suppressed, kept just below the surface. Bokuto didn’t have the same restraint, and Akaashi felt a small, bitter swell of pride at how _crushed_ he looked.

_Good_.

_Hurt._

Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.

Heartbreak was an altered batch of ecstasy, the actual drug diluted and laced with an anger so strong that it bubbled through his stomach acid with ease, surging up his throat and leaving a trail of violent blisters that wanted nothing more than to burst and spew their venom across every surface. The atmosphere in the gym was cold, oppressing – practice was a sudden ice-age, unpredicted by any scientist. Rigid and awkward. A frigid chill left goose bumps prickling along everyone’s skin but Akaashi, who was a furnace, desperate in his pursuit to burn the world down. Burn _Bokuto_ down. The anger was raw, and unexpected, consuming him with one fail swoop.

For the whole of morning practice, Akaashi didn’t toss to Bokuto once.

For the whole of afternoon practice, Akaashi didn’t toss to Bokuto once.

It was unsettling, really, how quiet practice was. Bokuto was silent apart from small mutters, and only when needed, his usual boisterous energy squashed. He was oddly timid, each movement the ghost of a larger than life personality, yet at the same time he held an air of aggression about him. Frustration, he was frustrated. He got like that. When he couldn’t remedy a situation how and when he wanted, he got irritated, and Akaashi tried to push back the familiarity of the situation. It was oddly reminiscent of his first year, the first time he’d met Bokuto, when the boy was spiking against the wall, ignored by the rest of the team. A menace, he was described as – impossible to get along with, violent, insubordinate.

They should’ve been moving forwards, not backwards.

Akaashi didn’t want to move backwards.

Stage three of the cliché’s: Akaashi was suffocating.

His breaths began to catch in hiccups, shoulders shaking and knees wobbling as he gripped his training shirt, having just changed back into his uniform. His chest heaved, and his eyes stung, everything suddenly crushing down, down, down, the last thread of the rope fraying and snapping and letting the weight drop right onto his shoulders. He choked, a sob getting caught in his throat, and his legs gave way, knees hitting the hard floor of the club room with a thrum of pain – nothing bad at the moment of impact, but the kind that left you knowing that yes, that’s going to bruise. He pulled the shirt to his chest, squeezing his eyes closed and biting his lips as for the first time since it happened, he cried.

It was the ugly, grieving sort of crying – the type where your face was blotchy with tears, and your nostrils wet as your nose ran, and you couldn’t catch your breath, every single inhale a struggle that strained your lungs. He hunched, shoulders slouching so that he was facing the floor, each hiccup echoing through the empty room. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand any of it. He’d thought he did. He’d thought he’d understood Bokuto, and _them_ , but he _hadn’t_. Why didn’t he? Where had he gone wrong?

‘ _APRIL FOOLS!!’_

“Akaashi?”

Bokuto’s voice was so small that Akaashi barely caught it through his sobs, and he froze in place, eyes snapping opening and widening. They stung, the air cooling his damp cheeks and prompting his skin to itch. The door to the clubroom creaked, and Akaashi gripped the shirt tighter still, fingers actually hurting with the strain. There was a tense silence, only Akaashi’s heaved breaths breaking through.

“Akaashi, can we talk?”

_No._

“Go away.”

_Get out._

Bokuto stopped, and Akaashi could practically imagine the conflicted look on his face, contorting his features, marring his looks. It wasn’t one hadn’t seen before, so even without turning round, the expression was picture perfect in his mind. He wanted to crush it. He wanted to crush everything. He wanted to crush the tension between them, and he wanted to crush the memory that had lead them to this. Most of all, he wanted to crush the Akaashi who had let himself fall for Bokuto Koutarou.

“Akaa-” A hand touched his shoulder, sparking a fuse, and Akaashi erupted.

“Don’t touch me!”

_Leave._

Everything came to a halt, and they entered stage three of the cliché’s: the world stopped. He’d never screamed at Bokuto before, and the words cut through the room like a serrated blade, sawing through sinew and flesh and bone all at once. A swift, fatal blow. In his head, Akaashi could hear the grating of clogs as Bokuto’s entire being shut down, the shock like a current, short-circuiting his system. He stood behind Akaashi for a moment, hand hovering close to the boy’s shoulder from where he’d yanked it back at the cry. It stayed still, trembling just a tad, before it dropped limp at his side, swinging once before ceasing all movement.

The silence was deafening.

“I understand.”

_Do you?_

_That’s not fair, because I don’t._

_I don’t understand._

Bokuto left, the door slamming shut and causing Akaashi to flinch, eyes closing once again.

Bokuto left, and he didn’t return.

Heartbreak didn’t feel like the books said it would.

The stages were over and done with quickly, lasting only a day before reaching their finale. They petered out after that, leading him back to the numbness that had begun the cycle, a full circle. It was a sour realisation that he was back to square one without having made any progress in mending the wound created, the only difference being that he had developed a thick sense of guilt. As for what the guilt was for, he wasn’t quite sure. For shouting at Bokuto? For ignoring him? Both? Something entirely different? He didn’t know, and he hadn’t managed to decide if he cared, either. He was tired. No, he was _exhausted_ – drained, no energy left. He was walking lead, each footstep heavy and dragged, and each toss sloppy, his body lagging, unable to catch up with his thoughts. For the fourth time that practice, the ball fell to the ground just past Konoha’s hand, the spike completely flat lining. Akaashi was sweating, the moisture draping over his skin like Clingfilm, an uncomfortable and gross sheen. He was panting, and he used the collar of his shirt to wipe his face, glaring at the ball as it rolled across the gym floor, hitting the wall with a soft thump before beginning to roll backwards instead, the obstacle presented forcing it to change direction.

“Akaashi, take a time out.”

He was benched, and he watched.

The team looked different without Bokuto. He’d stopped showing up to practice after that day, steering clear. Akaashi saw him in the corridors sometimes, but they didn’t look at each other, and they never spoke a single word – they just passed by, like perfect strangers, not a single interaction marking their history together. Days passed; one practice, two. One day, two. Three practices, four. Three days, four. An entire week, and nothing. It was having its effect, everyone knowing how important to the team Akaashi and Bokuto were, but not realising that they were _vital_. The oxygen to the lungs, the blood to the brain. An essential to survive, and an essential to succeed. The team couldn’t function without them, and they couldn’t function alone. Without Bokuto, Akaashi couldn’t play, and vice-versa.

Everything fell apart.

‘ _He has a study session._ ’

‘ _He needed to pick up his sister._ ’

‘ _He’s not feeling too good._ ’

Bokuto studied with the others on the team, never anyone from his classes. Bokuto’s sister was fifteen, she walked home. Bokuto came to practice even when he was burning with fever, and refused to leave.

Bokuto was avoiding him.

“Coach, you in here?”

It was like Deja-vu – Bokuto seemed to have a knack for appearing behind him, when he was least expecting it, and when he least wanted it. Akaashi was already changed, practice about fifteen minutes past being over, and he was standing across from their coach, who had his arms crossed across his chest. He was being questioned about his latest plays, about Bokuto, about the mess that they’d created for everyone, most of all themselves. He stopped mid-sentence, however, when the gym doors opened and Bokuto entered. For the first time in what felt like forever, Akaashi looked at him. His hair was down, yet another similarity to how he’d been when they first met, only it had shoddy dye job he’d taken to in the time since. It fell in his eyes, slightly wavy, a bounce that was lost in the litres of gel he usually slathered onto the locks. His sleeves were typically rolled up, and his collar was undone, tie loose – he looked like a delinquent.

In his hand was a piece of paper.

“Wait outside, Bokuto, I’m just speaking to Akaashi.” Bokuto nodded in response to the coach’s words, curt and stiff, before turning to leave. Akaashi stopped him – not with a touch, but with words. Two, to be exact. Snapped, harsh.

“What’s that?”

Akaashi was referring to the paper, of course he was, but that took a moment to register in Bokuto’s mind, still struggling to understand that Akaashi was actually addressing him. He blinked, before he stiffened, expression struggling to show contempt as opposed to strained relief – the truth poked through, though. It always did with Bokuto. He was unable to lie, face always betraying him, and it was incredibly, frustratingly endearing. Bokuto straightened, correcting his posture and trying to seem put together despite the dishevelment of his appearance.

“It’s nothing.”

_It’s not nothing._

Akaashi stepped forwards, and snatched it from Bokuto’s hands, reading it whilst keeping the defiant, ‘I’m still pissed at you’ glare firmly in place. He clenched the sheet, goose-bumps prickling along his skin and his stance turning rigid, firm, and unmoveable. He swallowed thickly, gripping even tighter to try and will the trembles from his body.

“You’re quitting?” His voice was barely above a whisper, and Bokuto looked away, letting out a ‘tch’ which had Akaashi’s heart giving a hard thud against his lungs, making it difficult to breathe evenly. He didn’t look up at Bokuto, keeping his gaze firmly on the resignation form filled with Bokuto’s scrawl.

“It’s none of your business.”

_It’s none of my business._

Heartbreak felt exactly like the books said it would.

It just took a while to hit.

The tearing of paper was loud, louder than it should’ve been. A pin drop with the volume of an avalanche. He dropped the shreds to the ground, gaze finally raising to meet Bokuto’s as he did so, eyes narrowed to mere slits on his face, and chest rising and falling in slow, deep, heavy breaths.

“Coward.”

_Coward._

_Coward._

_Coward._

“Whatever.”

_Whatever?_

_No._

_Stop that._

_Why aren’t you hurting?_

_Let me break you._

Bokuto turned to leave again, slipping his hands into his pockets, slouching as he began to slink away, and Akaashi moved on instinct, no longer thinking about his actions as he grabbed a ball. Their coach was still there, but his yells for Akaashi to calm down fell on deaf ears as he lifting his arm; up, back. He swung forward, and he let go. The ball flew, his aim accurate to a fault, smashing into the back of Bokuto’s head and sending him jerking forwards, almost tripping and falling but managing to catch himself last minute.

“Is that it, then? You’re just going to run away? Coward! You’re a coward!”

Akaashi’s voice was scratchy from how loud he was yelling, practically screaming, the sound bordering on shrill. Bokuto’s hands clenched into fists in his pockets, before he wrenched them out, whirling around and facing Akaashi head on, the two of them making perfect, furious eye contact that transported them to an alternate reality. A reality wherein it was only them, wherein it was always only them. The source of the storm, the tectonic plates that Akaashi had been waiting for finally shifting, two stressed bulls colliding.

“So what if I’m a coward? So are you! Who started running first, Akaashi? Because it wasn’t me, so stop acting like you’re the better person!”

Hearing Bokuto shout wasn’t an anomaly, but hearing him shout _angrily_ – _seriously angrily_ – and in Akaashi’s own direction was something that was new, and terrifying, and exhilarating all in once, throwing more fuel onto the fire and letting the inferno blaze.

Akaashi threw another ball.

“You’re not allowed to quit. You’re the captain. What about the team? Selfish. Selfish coward. That’s what you are.”

The ball hit Bokuto’s shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He just stood, and he glared, and he seethed.

“I’m not the captain anymore. _You_ are.”

Akaashi let out a frustrated scream, the sound coming from his throat only, his jaw clenched and lips pressed into a tight line, and he grabbed another ball, and he threw. He threw it hard, and it landed on its mark. So he grabbed another, and again, it hit.

“You’re selfish! You’re selfish, and you’re an ass, because this _isn’t fair_. You have-” He threw another ball. “No _right-_ ” Another. “To be mad at _me_!” The last fell short, the first not to hit its target. It bounced, and Akaashi choked on his tears, having not noticed how his vision had blurred, cheeks wet to the touch and lips tangy with salt. His fingers tingled with how weak his body had become, everything sapping from him in one swing, leaving him a panting, sobbing mess.

The coach had left, leaving them alone. He’d probably gone to get someone – catch up with Konoha, or Washio, or _anyone_ , suddenly out of his depth with the situation. The gym was silent.

“Akaashi-”

“You’re the worst.”

Bokuto had always taken big steps – long strides that covered an incredible distance in such a short frame of time. Arms wrapped around him, and he pushed against them, forcing them away. They held tighter, trembling fingers digging into his blazer and bunching the fabric. There was a forehead on his shoulder, dipping down awkwardly to allow the position, and Akaashi could hear the rasps and hitches of Bokuto’s breath. Crying, he was crying.

_Good._

“I know.” Akaashi let out a sob, weakly pushing at Bokuto’s shoulders in a half-hearted, last ditch attempt to get him to pull back, to walk away, to leave. He didn’t, he just held tighter, and he cried harder, and it hurt to hear him cry, but it also felt amazing, because that meant he was hurting as much as Akaashi was, and Akaashi wanted that. He craved it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please stop crying. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I didn’t mean it. I like you. Like, _like_ like. And I panicked. And I’m sorry. So hit me with as many balls as you want, and be mad, because I would be mad too, and I’m really stupid I know that and I’m sorry. But please stop crying-”

Bokuto was babbling, and he continued with his spew of words, trying to explain something and failing miserably, his words cutting into each other.

So Akaashi cut them off.

“I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

It worked, Bokuto shut up.

Then, he sniffed.

“You started crying first, though.”

“No I didn’t.”

Bokuto held tighter, and Akaashi stopped trying to push him away.

“Did too.”

The words were breathed, barely audible, but stubborn, and Akaashi choked on a laugh as he spoke, fresh tears springing forth.

“I hate you.”

_A lie._

“I really hate me, too.”

“I didn’t say I really hate you, I just said I hate you.”

“Oh. Well you should really hate me.”

“I should.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

Akaashi breathed in deep, and then out slow – inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth. He pulled back slowly, so that they could see each other, proximity close and faces a mess. Bokuto’s eyes were puffy, and his nose was running, skin wet with tears, and in comparison Akaashi’s cheeks were pink and blotchy, his eyelashes dotted with tears. He grimaced at the state of Bokuto’s face, and more specifically, the snot, glancing away briefly to fumble about in his pocket. He pulled out a packet of tissues, releasing one from the packaging and reaching up, covering Bokuto’s nose with it and squeezing as he wiped. Bokuto scrunched up his face in distaste at the sudden invasion, and Akaashi frowned.

“Why?”

X2 = _Why?_

The equation was still unsolved, and Akaashi wanted to know the solution.

“It was an accident.”

Akaashi wanted to laugh.

Akaashi laughed.

“An accident?” He echoed, and he was met with a look of pure guilt.

“I panicked. I didn’t realise you had already replied. I was an idiot.”

“ _Are._ ” Akaashi corrected. “You _are_ an idiot.”

Outside, there was the sound of footsteps. Fast, multiple sets. The gym doors swung open, and light flooded in.

“Akaashi? Bokuto?” It was Komi. “Are you guys okay?”

Akaashi stared up at Bokuto, and Bokuto stared back.

Slowly, he nodded.

“We will be.”

There was an audible sigh from someone, and then a mutter of ‘See? I told you there was no need for us to intervene’, before the gym doors slammed closed again, the voices that were quickly escalating into a stupid argument fading into the distance. Bokuto continued to stare at Akaashi, the guilt from earlier replaced with a bright hope that danced in the backs of his eyes.

“We will be?”

Again, Akaashi nodded.

“We will be.” Then, he glanced around, the floor that had been carefully cleared after practiced once again littered with balls that were rolling this way and that, spreading across an entire side of the court. “But first, you need to earn my forgiveness. Clear these balls away.”

Bokuto whined, and Akaashi felt his lips curl into a genuine smile.

“It’s an order. And as I’m the captain, you have to do what I say.”

Bokuto spluttered at that, and he followed as Akaashi moved to grab his bag, arms flailing, and the tension that had clouded his body earlier melting away easily. Akaashi shook his head fondly as floods of lines such as ‘I was just angry, I’m still the captain’ and ‘I _am_ still the captain right?’ poured from Bokuto’s mouth. Akaashi swung his bag over his shoulder, turning to look at Bokuto, which lead the boy to stop abruptly as he realised that Akaashi, too, had stopped moving.

“You can be captain again for a price.”

“A price?”

“A kiss.”

Bokuto perked up.

“But you can only pay after you’ve cleared up.”

Bokuto deflated again.

Akaashi’s smile widened.

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The fourth stage of the cliché’s: The sappy make-up scene where everything works out perfectly fine in the end.

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**Sun 02 2016, 22:12:04**

**From: Bokuto Koutarou**

> \- Message Deleted.

**Sun 02 2016, 22:12:08**

**From: Bokuto Koutarou**

> \- Message Deleted.

**Author's Note:**

> #notsorry
> 
> (also, visit askbokuaka.tumblr.com to see the gut-wrenching sad comic vers of this goddamn au because why hurt once when you can hurt twice lmao)


End file.
